


the paths of kings and wanderers

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Thorin Feels, canon compliant sort of, kid!Aragorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin meets ten-year-old Estel during his stay in Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the paths of kings and wanderers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1203398#t1203398) prompt at hobbit-kink. A mish-mash of book and movie verse.

It’s on his second eve in Rivendell that he chances upon the sword that has all but become myth, along with the ancient line of kings who wielded it. The shards are set on a slab of stone, carried by the statue of a hooded figure that looks down upon them as if in mourning. The daylight that drapes over the steel lends it an ethereal glow and Thorin senses the power that lingers. He reaches forth, hand hovering over the relic, itching to reforge and renew its strength. 

Sensing a presence, he turns to his right and finds a young lad watching him with unguarded curiosity.

“Are you a dwarf?” the boy inquires boldly. “If so, then you are the tallest dwarf I have ever seen.”

“I am indeed. Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.” He steps away from Narsil and bows formally.

“Your name sounds of great importance. Mine is Estel.” The boy mirrors the bow and then grins widely, dark curls and bright eyes reminding Thorin of his youngest nephew.

“I dare say you are no Elf.” His eyes flit to the boy’s ears, then return to his face.

“My mother brought me here after my father—” Estel rocks back and forth on his heels. “She told me he died bravely in battle. I remember little about him.” 

His brows are drawn with determination, as if he must hold fast to his own courage in front of his new acquaintance, lest Thorin think poorly of him. 

“I, too, lost my father.” He offers a gentle smile, to share in Estel’s loss though his memories of Thráin are many and not all of them fond. But he recalls those of his boyhood, riding on his father’s back and pretending to be a master of dragons, letting his father’s stories of the wonders under the mountain lull him to sleep.

“Was he also a warrior?” Estel’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly as if awaiting an epic tale from a strange, faraway land. 

“A warrior and a king. Loved by his people.”

“Oh! I know who you are. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain! You fought in the War of the Dwarves and Orcs and single-handedly defeated Azog the Defiler. I learnt about you in history lessons. Though you look younger than I imagined.”

Thorin’s smile spreads as the boy babbles with infectious enthusiasm.

“I am nearing two hundred years old. Not so young, I fear.”

Estel considers Thorin then with a tilt of his head, dark eyes shrewd, bearing a wisdom beyond his years.

“Why have you come to Rivendell? And with so many companions?” 

For all the secrecy in which Thorin has shrouded his purpose thus far, he finds himself strangely compelled, sensing in this child of Númenor a kindred soul.

“We journey to the Lonely Mountain. There is one among us who thought it wise to seek council here.”

“The Lonely Mountain? Do—do you mean to slay the fire-breather?” Estel’s eyes are wide again, words hushed. Thorin knows that for one so young, the notion is entirely a fantastical one, no more grounded in reality than glorious battles recounted in history books.

“Ah, now your imagination has run away with you.” Thorin feigns disapproval before bending towards the boy in a conspiratorial fashion. “This secret is between us.”

He winks and Estel allows a giggle to escape his lips before nodding solemnly.

“You have my word,” he whispers. 

Thorin turns to leave.

“Wait! Will we meet again?” Apprehension colors the boy’s voice, as if he guards himself against the possibilities, and Thorin has not the heart to speak plainly or to deceive. 

“This we must leave to Fate, for only she knows where our paths will lead us.” He waits long enough to see the boy smile again.

Later in the evening he finds Gandalf seated on a cushion in the open air, puffing on his pipe and observing the stars, as if he is privy to their secrets. He stands beside the wizard silently for a long moment.

“What is the meaning of _Estel_?”

“Ah, so you have met the boy.” Gandalf blows out another smoke ring that expands and lingers, framing the night sky. “It means hope.”

Thorin touches the key that lies heavily against his chest, pondering the mysterious ways in which Fate has pointed him home.

*

The statue carrying the legacy of Men sits in the shadows, much like the kingdom that has seen its glory diminish like a guttering flame. Aragorn seats himself nearby with a book, absently turning the pages as his mind travels back through time, to that distant day when he had met Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. He’d only learned later, when news of the king’s death reached Rivendell, of the true purpose of Thorin’s quest, and he had mourned openly, refusing to believe it was what Fate had intended.

He stills his hands against his book and wonders about the dwarf who had placed his trust in a boy, their ignorance of the ties that bound them. He imagines how Thorin might counsel him now if they were to meet again. Greed had been his downfall, some say. He had coveted his treasure too fiercely, like the dragon he sought to destroy. But Aragorn thinks of the dignity and strength with which Thorin had held himself, and imagines people would speak of him differently if they had met the king as he had. He remembers Thorin’s eyes stirring in him a strange melancholy that he now understands to be a sorrow Thorin could no more shed than the duty he bore to his people. He imagines the dwarf would think him dishonorable for abandoning his right to the throne, weak for fearing failure, and he would not be quick to disagree.

He finds his gaze falling upon the shards of Narsil, dimmed and dull in the shadows, and wonders to what purpose their paths had crossed, hearing in his head the answer Thorin would give.


End file.
